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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Wrapped in a shawl against the nip of an easterly wind, Emily O’Shea braved the labyrinth of narrow lanes of St. Giles. She ducked and dived her way under the dripping carcasses of meat strung across the alleyways of the butchers’ shambles and dodged around the gaping hatches that opened up in the ground by alehouses. Overhead the signs of makers and shopkeepers were caught now and again by a brisk gust and creaked plaintively on their hinges. She was anxious to reach her home before nightfall. The messenger boy had said she was needed urgently and the housekeeper, Mistress Goodbody, had given her leave for the night, but she was to be back at work by first light.
She reached her destination shortly before six o’clock and paused for a moment outside a dilapidated gate as if composing her thoughts before climbing a flight of rickety stairs into the rookeries. The walls were green with moss and the last vestiges of daylight could be seen through a hole in the roof. At the top of the landing she reached a doorway. Children were running hither and thither, one almost sending her flying. Yet above the general din she could still hear a baby’s cries from within. She knocked.
“ ’Tis Emily,” she called, hoping her voice would be heard over the noise. A moment later a woman answered, the screaming baby firmly planted on her hip.
“I came as soon as I could. What is it, Ma?” she asked anxiously.
Her mother’s face was drawn and gaunt and her breastbone protruded from the top of her bodice. “ ’Tis your gran. She’s been calling for you these past few nights,” she shouted above the baby’s bawl. She opened the door wide onto a cramped, unlit room. Soiled rushes were scattered thinly across the floor. Another child, a boy of no more than six, played with a bone.
“She’s been talking shite, she ’as,” mumbled a man, who sprawled in a chair in the corner, swigging liquor. When Mad Sam O’Shea wasn’t addled by strong drink he would hawk anything he could get his grubby hands on. He’d even have sold his own daughter if the price had been right, but thankfully for Emily she had found service before that could happen.
“Rambling on and on,” said her mother, leading Emily over to a cot in the corner. The girl looked at the old crone. The woman lay on her back with her eyes shut and sunken into her skull. Her emaciated body was covered by a filthy sack. Emily stretched out a reluctant hand to touch her. Her skin felt like cold parchment.
“ ’Tis me, Gran,” she said softly.
At the sound of her voice, Grandmother Tooley’s eyes opened in an instant, startling the girl.
“Thank the Lord you’re here, child,” she croaked, taking her granddaughter’s hand. “You need to know.”
“Know what?” Emily frowned.
The old woman tugged her hand so that Emily bent down low. Her grandmother reeked of piss.
“He’s coming soon,” she whispered.
“Who, Gran? Who?”
“The tall man,” said Grandmother Tooley, lifting herself up on twig-thin arms.
Emily’s mother now joined her daughter, the babe still screaming on her hip.
“She makes no sense,” she said, shaking her head.
“Who, Gran? Who’s coming?” repeated Emily.
“The tall man from across the water,” said the old woman, looking at the young girl intently before dropping back into the cot and closing her eyes once more.
Chapter 5
T
homas arrived at Boughton Hall just as the last rays of the April sun were setting on the Chiltern Hills, turning them burnished gold. He had taken the coach from London to Oxford at first light, then been met by Lydia’s head groom, Jacob Lovelock, in a chaise. He was tired and sore from being jounced about in the carriage and anxious as to what he might find on his arrival. Lydia had not specified why she wanted to see him urgently, only that she had a special visitor who needed his help.
The carriage turned into the imposing wrought-iron gates that marked the boundary of the estate and started up the long drive toward the hall. The long shadows of the trees began to mingle and dissipate into twilight. A week of dry weather had followed on from heavy spring rains, and the ruts in the driveway were deep and hard as clay, making Thomas’s ride even more uncomfortable. But the surroundings were reassuringly familiar to him and he relished the silhouette of the family chapel as it came into view, knowing that Boughton itself lay just over the brim of the hill beyond.
He had just reached for his hat on the opposite seat in preparation for alighting when one of the horses let out a terrible whinny and reared up. He felt the carriage lurch and heard Lovelock try to calm the other three mares. But it was too late. The chaise veered off the drive and Thomas felt its back wheel drop into the ditch, knocking him sideways.
Scrambling to his feet, he managed to haul himself up and look out of the window. Lovelock, who had been riding postilion, had jumped out of the saddle and was holding the bridle of the lead horse, trying to calm it. It still appeared uneasy, its eyes full of fear, and Thomas looked up the track to see what might have caused it to rear. He did not have to search long. Standing in the middle of the drive, a few yards away, was a huge figure of a man. He guessed he must have been at least eight feet tall and was as wide as a sedan. As he walked up to Lovelock, Thomas was amazed to see that this stranger’s hips were level with the groom’s head. He had never seen anyone like him before, not even in his medical books, and for a moment he abandoned all his professional training and allowed his jaw to drop open in amazement.
“Calm yourself now, girl,” Lovelock urged the mare. He did not seem shocked or disconcerted by the giant apparition that stood a few feet away. “Perhaps you could give us a hand, Mr. Byrne,” he called.
The figure approached slowly. “I-I am s-sorry,” he stuttered in a voice as deep as thunder. The mare champed at the bit once more.
“Can ye get ’round the back? The wheel’s stuck,” called Lovelock, still holding on to the mare’s bridle as she sauntered and sallied on the spot.
Thomas looked out of the carriage window in wonderment as he watched the man position his shoulder under the wheel arch and lift up the entire carriage out of the rut and back onto the driveway without so much as breaking into a sweat.
“Will ye need a ride?” enquired Lovelock of the giant.
“No. I’ll walk, so I will,” he replied, waving a large hand dismissively in the air.
“All’s well, sir?” the groom called back to a bemused Thomas.
“Yes. Yes indeed.” He nodded, leaning out of the window.
Lovelock climbed back onto the lead mare, and with a gentle nudge the horses started off up the drive once more, leaving Charles Byrne alone in the encroaching dusk to make his own way back to the hall.
Lydia had been watching for Thomas’s carriage from an upstairs room and saw it crest the hill, its shape silhouetted against an orange sky. She was seated in the drawing room, her skirts arranged in a fan around her, when Howard the butler ushered the young doctor in. She waited until he had left the room to fetch refreshments before rising and rushing forward to greet Thomas.
“My love, it is so good to see you,” she blurted, burying her face in Thomas’s coat.
“And you, my beloved,” he replied, holding her tightly, breathing in her scent. It had been almost five months since they had last held each other, and for a few snatched moments they simply found each other’s lips until Howard’s footsteps could be heard once more.
Decorum quickly reestablished itself as tea was poured, but Howard was dismissed as soon as possible, leaving them alone to talk.
“But is all well?” asked Thomas, remembering Lydia’s urgent note. “You have a visitor?” Her garbled message had simply told Thomas that she knew of someone who urgently needed his help.
She nodded, as if suddenly recalling the reason for his arrival, which had been lost in the excitement of his presence. “A visitor. Yes. Indeed. I am most anxious for you to meet him.”
“I think I may have seen him already,” said Thomas.
“Mr. Byrne?”
“He must be one of the tallest men in the world.”
“Indeed so,” replied Lydia. “And cruelly abused.”
“How so?”
“By a showman at the fair.”
Thomas knew of such cases where nonconformity to nature’s norm meant curiosities would be exhibited. In inns and hostelries in his own homeland he had seen a dead whale caught in the Delaware River and a strange beast from Russia that was part bear, part camel. These were harmless distractions and amusements, but soon they had taken on a more sinister mantle. A Negro slave with a rare skin condition that turned him from black to white or a woman without arms or legs who could paint holding a brush in her mouth drew in much bigger crowds.
“And you have freed him?” he asked her.
Lydia smiled. “Mr. Byrne will be a guest here for as long as he wishes.”
At that moment the door opened. “And here is another of my guests,” said Lydia. Thomas looked down in amazement to see a small figure approaching him confidently despite his bandied gait. He was dressed for dinner in a fine brocade jacket and a lace cravat all tailored in perfect proportion to his tiny frame.
“Count Josef Boruwlaski, I would like you to meet Dr. Thomas Silkstone,” said Lydia.
The little man stopped in front of Thomas, who was trying to hide his surprise. “Lady Lydia has told me much about you and your skills, Dr. Silkstone,” he greeted him cheerily, bowing low.
“My late father and the count met in Warsaw many years ago and became firm friends,” explained Lydia.
“I have decided to make England my home, and her ladyship kindly invited me to stay,” added the dwarf.
“And I know her ladyship will do everything to ensure you are made to feel welcome,” replied the young doctor.
Lydia could see that Thomas was still bemused by his extraordinary encounters all within the space of the last few minutes. “But you must be exhausted, Dr. Silkstone,” she said cheerfully. “Howard will show you to your room and then we can talk further over dinner.”
Thomas smiled graciously. He hoped that after he had washed and changed his clothes he would be able to make more sense of the situation than he could at the present. There was obviously some good reason for Lydia to be playing host to these, the tallest and smallest of men, at Boughton Hall, and he was eager to find out more. He said simply: “Thank you, your ladyship,” and took his leave.
 
An hour later the doctor returned to the drawing room feeling refreshed. Lydia was now dressed for dinner, too, and he found her speaking to a mutual old acquaintance.
“Sir Theodisius,” greeted Thomas, outstretching his hand. The portly Oxford coroner had helped him solve the mystery of Lydia’s husband’s death the year before. He had since been a great comfort to her in her widowhood. On this occasion he was accompanied by his wife, Lady Harriet, whom he called Hetty; a nervous woman, as thin as her husband was wide.
“Good to see you again, Silkstone,” said Sir Theodisius, giving Thomas a firm handshake.
“And you, sir,” replied the young anatomist, smiling broadly.
“So, her ladyship wishes you to meet her mystery guest, I believe,” said the coroner.
“Indeed,” said Thomas, still unsure of the role Lydia wanted him to play.
At that moment Howard opened the door and in walked the count, this time accompanied by the giant. For a moment the two men stood side by side, framed by the doorway, and the extraordinary sight caused Sir Theodisius to choke on his glass of sack.
“Gentlemen, I am delighted to introduce Mr. Charles Byrne.” Lydia beamed.
This time Thomas was able to check his own fascination. He willed his eyes not to stray over the giant’s frame and his expression not to betray his utter amazement. It would not be seemly at such a gathering. Any professional interest he showed must be confined to a medical examination, he told himself.
Mr. Byrne, however, looked decidedly ill at ease.
“And where is your home, sir?” ventured Thomas, trying to make polite conversation.
“I c-come from Ireland, sir, that I do, sir,” replied Byrne, his gaze firmly fixed to the floor.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you,” said the doctor, trying to ease the giant’s awkwardness. Even so, he could not help noting with his physician’s eye that his tongue appeared far too big for his mouth as a thread of spittle dribbled down his chin.
“And you are come to show yourself?” enquired Sir Theodisius, taking up the conversation.
Before the giant could formulate a reply, however, Lydia cut in.
“Dinner is served, I believe,” she told her guests, and Thomas duly offered her his arm to accompany her into the dining room.
 
Lydia had ordered Mistress Claddingbowl, the cook, to prepare at least twice as much food as she would normally for a dinner party of this size.
“We have some hearty appetites to feed,” she had told her prior to her marketing.
The company feasted on roast mutton and stewed carp, and no one turned a hair when Mr. Byrne helped himself to a whole pheasant. Indeed, Sir Theodisius deemed it politic to follow suit.
The count appeared, thought Thomas, to be as witty and erudite as Mr. Byrne was morose and his conversation flowed as freely as the wine, although the little man declined to drink anything strong himself.
“I have drunk only water since 1760,” he declared, raising his glass in a toast. “I believe it keeps the intellects sharper and the body healthier.”
“Then we shall drink to your continued good health.” Sir Theodisius smiled.
“And to yours, Mr. Byrne,” added Thomas, even though he doubted his health was, indeed, good.
Throughout the meal the giant remained quiet, concentrating on his food rather than the conversation. Lydia smiled as the servants cleared away the plates.
“Lady Pettigrew and I shall withdraw now and leave you gentlemen to your port,” she said, rising from the table. As she did so, she turned to Thomas and whispered: “The count will explain everything.”
While the others imbibed glasses of port and, to Sir Theodisius’s delight, a whole Stilton cheese, the count did embark on an explanation for Mr. Byrne’s presence, but he started with his own story.
Thomas found himself listening intently as the little man began to tell them of his upbringing in his native Polish Russia. “My parents were of middle size,” he began. “They had six children, five sons and one daughter. Three of these children grew to above the middle stature, whilst the two others, like myself, reached only that of children in general at the age of four or five.” When his father died, when he was aged just nine, his mother was persuaded to let her son live with a noblewoman, and from then on fortune shone upon the boy. His wit and good manners, which had clearly not deserted him, thought Thomas, endeared him to aristocratic women and opened the door to the courts of Europe. “I have enjoyed great patronage and the love of many beautiful women,” proclaimed the little man with a twinkle in his eye.
“You have indeed been fortunate, sir,” remarked Thomas. He could easily recall his first—and only—visit to St. Bartholomew’s Fair in London. With his own eyes he had witnessed a bearded lady and twins joined at the head. They had all been exhibited by a showman, who no doubt took the lion’s share of what little money was made from their disabilities. It had galled him greatly to see such exploitation, and from then on he had vowed never to go to an English fair again.

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